Drinking Games
by SARXII
Summary: Five times John was very drunk. Then one time, he wasn't. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **This is my first submission into Sherlock fanfiction, though I've been an avid writer for years. I'm obsessed with this series, and I love Johnlock. I don't know who started the five and one thing, or where it came from, but I absolutely adore it. The format is perfect for fluff and doesn't take a huge amount of commitment when you've got a horrible busy schedule (like me!). Enjoy the story, and please let me know what you think.

**Drinking Games**

**by  
><strong>**SARXII**

Five times John was very drunk.  
>Then one time, he wasn't.<p>

* * *

><p>John tripped his way out of the cab and threw too much money into the front seat. It drove off without a second look, leaving the doctor wobbling uncertainly on the sidewalk in front of 221B. Pulling together the remaining soldier determination he had, he stepped up to the doorway and attempted to get his key into the front door.<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock sat, perched on a stool at the kitchen table. He'd been staring into the same microscope for nearly an hour, and his cheek began to twitch in discomfort at keeping one eye open the whole time.<p>

Standing, Sherlock paced the room and stretched his stiff muscles. For the fifth time he wondered where John was that evening, and for the fifth time saw the note pinned to the door that read, "William's Stag Party. Will be home later."

John had gotten in the habit of leaving reminders like that for Sherlock. He eventually realized that no matter how many times he told the detective something, it was still unlikely he'd remember. So, the doctor left notes to remind him in his absence. _'Thoughtful John.'_

The clock read 2:37AM. It was an hour later than Sherlock thought. What felt like 60 minutes of staring at the same sample was actually closer to 120. The results he wanted were now an hour outside of their window of opportunity, and with a huff he realized he would have to reevaluate and begin again in the morning.

Bored of the whole thing, the sleuth collapsed onto the couch and placed a pillow over his face. It was the pillow John tended to recline with and it smelt like him. He allowed himself a moment of relaxation to relish in John's aroma.

There was a noise downstairs and he sat stark straight. The only sound for hours had been Mrs. Hudson's telly blaring through the floorboards. Was it a break in? Was it Lestrade? Was something interesting about to happen?

The flat was silent for a long moment and he groaned. He collapsed back again and resigned to a boring night without his flat mate.

However, the strange scraping sound began again in vigor. Standing up this time, he listened intently. "Keys!" he cried suddenly, realizing it was the sound of keys against the downstairs doorknob, which meant that John was finally home. But what the hell was taking him so long to get in?

Sherlock walked out of the flat and was halfway down the stairs before the door finally burst open. John hung desperately onto the doorknob and almost fell over as it swung in. He shushed the door loudly, trying to get his footing. "John?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised high.

Suddenly aware of his friend's presence, John stood as straight as a soldier awaiting his orders. They had an almost comically long staring contest before John finally gave a curt nod and muttered, "Sherlock."

The detective was at a loss for words. He knew that John drank, of course, and he'd come home with a few pints in him before, but never like this. He could smell the alcohol on him from the door. Without another word, John marched up the stairs and past his friend. He'd somehow gotten it in his mind that he could convince Sherlock he wasn't completely pissed.

"Would you like some assistance?" Sherlock asked as he tripped on one of the stairs.

John straightened again and with an indignant tug on his shirt nearly shouted, "No, thank you!"

Sherlock stayed frozen on the stairs as John disappeared into the flat. It looked like his boring night might have just gotten a little more interesting.

The doctor had left the door standing wide open in his stupor, his keys dangling from the handle. Sherlock collected them and bolted the door, cataloguing the fact that alcohol made John very one-track minded. By the time he'd gotten upstairs John had the telly on and was settled on the couch. Sherlock chuckled deeply at the sight of him.

"What?" John asked, not looking up from the telly.

"It would appear that in your fruitless effort to appear sober, you've put on MY robe."

John looked down and his scowl deepened. Sherlock could see the wheels turning in his mind as he attempted an excuse for wearing his flat mate's robe. "Your robe was closer," was his final replay, quickly followed by, "And I am sober."

Sherlock didn't respond, just sat down on his side of the couch and faced John, observing every detail. The shorter man was staring intently at the late night program, barely blinking his eyes. His brow was furrowed in a way that clearly showed deep concentration. He didn't show any reaction to the show, however, meaning his concentration was completely internal. His shirt had a few stains on it from beverages and food alike, and Sherlock could make a chronological road map of his friend's night from them.

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

His hair was unkempt and he reeked of cigarette smoke and perfume. He'd obviously visited a strip club at some point, which accounted for the left over bits of glitter on his trousers.

"Stop it."

"No."

He'd taken his wallet from his pants and put it on the coffee table before Sherlock had returned. There was the same amount of bills in it as when he'd left it on the table before leaving for his coworker's stag party, meaning he'd used his card all night.

"You went to a strip club, but didn't prospect any of the ladies. There is body glitter on your pants, so obviously one of your mates paid for it. Or perhaps it was complimentary for the stag party? Either way, it was short, and I doubt you enjoyed it, seeing as you didn't tip the young lady. I believe I am safe to assume you spent the rest of the night flirting with the bartender harmlessly while your chaps thoroughly enjoyed themselves."

There was a long, pregnant pause that followed in which Sherlock was suddenly worried he'd somehow insulted his only friend. He really didn't need John to stop talking to him for the second time that month. However, instead of getting angry, John finally closed his eyes and dropped back his head, letting the tension out of his body. With a huff, John asked, "Were you fooled for a moment?"

"Hardly," Sherlock snorted.

Suddenly, John fell sideways, startling the younger man as he let his head rest on his shoulder. Thinking John had passed out, Sherlock bounced the doctor's head on his shoulder, but the doctor didn't move.

"You smell nice," John remarked, showing he was still awake.

Sherlock couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips at his friend's statement. He felt a tug in his chest. "You smell like strippers."

The older man broke out in laughter, and Sherlock followed quickly. The tug in his chest melted into a subtle warmth as they relaxed into each other. Once they'd collected themselves they fell into a comfortable silence, and Sherlock found himself actually watching the ridiculous program on the telly. He had a question pulling at the corners of his mind, though, and wanted to ask it while he still might get an honest response. "John, why didn't you want me to know you're drunk?"

The doctor audibly sighed at the question. He opened his eyes, but wouldn't look at Sherlock. "I don't like allowing myself to be this drunk. My sister is an alcoholic. I'm supposed to be the upstanding Watson. I don't want anyone to judge me like her. Especially you."

Sherlock snorted at the preposterous idea. "You're nothing like your sister."

That simple statement was enough to put John at ease. The last of his worries fell from him like silk, and he admitted that he should have known to think better of Sherlock.

They sat together for a few more minutes, and Sherlock quickly realized John wasn't planning on going anywhere. He decided to make the best of the situation. He lifted his arm and rested it on the back of the couch, allowing John to lie against him more easily. John burrowed deeper into him, pulling Sherlock's robe tighter around himself.

"Comfy?" the doctor asked.

"Very."

John had fallen asleep within minutes, and Sherlock found himself without the urge to occupy his mind the rest of the night.

**AN: **Please leave me reviews! I'd really appreciate any feedback on the characterization. It's really, really important to me that I get it right, and I think I've done a good job, but I can never be so sure. Also, look for my **tumblr** on my profile and follow me if you'd like. Or at least promote the story to the fandom on there if you like it :D

Go, be merry, and review!


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I had hoped to get this up yesterday, but didn't make my deadline. Happy late Valentine's Day!

**Drinking Games**

**by  
>SARXII<strong>

Sherlock felt light as a feather as he rode in the cab back to Baker Street. He was practically bouncing in his seat; which in reality meant he was drumming his fingers with a bright gleam in his eye, looking bored by the carbide to any outside party who might see him, including the cabbie.

"Sorry 'bout the traffic, sir. It'll be just a moment longer."

The detective nodded his acknowledgement, but didn't meet the man's eye. He watched the scenery fly by in a daze.

The triple homicide had been an interesting case, though easy to deduce – not really a triple homicide at all! It had been a double suicide subsequently followed by a murder. He could still see the consternation on Sergeant Donovan's face in his mind's eye and it made him smirk. The two women had committed suicide together (Anderson had made a comment about a Thelma and Louise that Sherlock catalogued to ask John about later) and one of their husbands, blaming the other unjustly for murdering their wives, killed his friend in cold blood. Then he fled the scene for the timeshare in the country.

Sherlock couldn't wait to explain the whole thing to John. His companion had skipped the investigation for work, and should be home. It was nearly 23:00 and he'd been off at 19:00.

After what felt like a lifetime, the cab stopped and Sherlock paid the driver. He thought for a moment about asking the man to stay, to get them out to the country town, but the poor man was already an hour in overtime and should be at home kissing his kids goodnight. Sherlock handed him a few bills, telling him to keep the change, which the man thanked him for profusely.

He needed John to assist him on the case. Though, he admitted to himself that he didn't really need the doctor, but he wasn't going to admit that to John. He already had an excuse ready to get John to go with him. Sherlock knew, however, that he just had to push enough and the doctor would come with him. _'Loyal John.'_

Sherlock burst into the building and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. "John, we must be going in haste! There isn't a moment to-"

The words died on his lips and he skidded to a halt on the landing outside of their flat. The door stood ajar, but none of the lights were on. He knew he'd closed it earlier in the day, and John would never be so careless.

His demeanor changed immediately. Pushing the door open slowly, he surveyed the scene. The coats and things had been knocked from their hooks haphazardly, but everything else seemed perfectly in place. The flat was completely silent. Sherlock skirted the edges of the room, staying as concealed in the shadows as he could. He ventured into the kitchen, but it was untouched as well.

Something didn't seem right. Had John been abducted again? Who would have taken him this time? There hadn't been a messy or unfinished case for months. Was it someone new? Some criminal trying to stake his claim by taking down the famous Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?

His heart was thumping noisily in his chest and he was sure that if anyone was in the flat, they could hear it from the other side of the room. He had to call John and make sure he was alright. It was likely he was still out, and if he was it would put Sherlock's mind at rest.

Pulling out his phone to call John, he stopped midway as something caught his eye in the reflection of the mirror over the mantelpiece. Following the reflection, he saw the light from under the bathroom door flooding into the hallway. He'd been too distracted to see it, and made a note to not let that happen again. Even if he was worried about John, to the point that it felt like his stomach was going to fall straight out of his abdomen, he knew he had to keep a clear, observant mind.

Walking across the flat and into the hallway, he pocketed his phone. "John?" he called, knocking on the bathroom door.

There was no response.

"John, are you in there?" he called again, checking the handle. It clicked haplessly and the door swung open.

Every muscle in his body tightened as he saw the abandoned jumper on the bathroom floor and nothing else. He still couldn't find the doctor, and his friend would never leave clothing lying around. The idea that John had been taken freshly awakened, he chastised himself into keeping a sound mind to unveil the details.

He kneeled on the ground and pulled out his magnifying glass, clicking it open and leaning over the evidence. There were no blood stains, and no sign of struggle within the room. The bottom of the tub was dry, so no bathing occurred, and the towels were untouched, meaning that the doctor hadn't even washed his hands or face or partaken in any activity that might have required water. In fact, the entire place appeared as though he had walked in, thrown off his jumper, walked out, and closed the door behind him. Sherlock dismissed the theory immediately. It was so unlike John that it simply wasn't possible.

With the outlook becoming bleaker and bleaker for his friends fate, Sherlock lifted the jumper from the ground to give it a better look over. There was hair on it, some of John's and some of his own, picked up in the flat no doubt. There were some he didn't recognize – long brown ones, a short red one, and a single curly blonde hair. Perhaps they belonged to colleagues from work? Patients?

Turning the jumper over, Sherlock's heart leapt momentarily into his throat at the large red stain that smeared across the front of it. Almost simultaneously he realized that it was the wrong color and pattern to be blood. However, that fact didn't calm his heart. It still raced unpleasantly and he felt the sickening twinge of fear gripping him.

The stain was still damp, less than an hour old, and had the look of a heavily dyed sugar drink. He sniffed at it and recoiled instantly.

Alcohol.

With a groan he stood and threw the soiled jumper behind him. "JOHN!"

Already on his way up to his flat mate's room, Sherlock had to pause when the gruff response came from his own bedroom. Turning on his heel and marching up to the door, he opened it without knocking.

"Sherlock?"

Said detective stopped in his tracks. John was shirtless, curled into a ball, and looking very comfortable on his bed. Attempting to get his brain functioning again, Sherlock turned the light on.

"Sherlock!" the doctor shouted, covering his eyes. "What the hell are you doing? I'm bloody trying to sleep!"

"In MY room?" the detective rebutted, pulling off his gloves and placing them in the pockets of his coat.

John uncovered his eyes and looked around the room. He appeared to have forgotten where he was, but once he remembered, a grin broke across his lips and he burst into a fit of laughter. "Yeah, it would appear so."

Sherlock stopped the smirk that was forming on his lips before it could be seen. He couldn't lie to himself; he enjoyed drunk John. The man was much less reserved and very amusing to be around. Besides, the last time he'd been drunk hadn't turned out too badly.

Laying back on the bed and closing his eyes, John relaxed again. He didn't have any intention of moving. He'd made himself quite comfortable and didn't want to leave the warmth of the bedding. "You don't mind do you?"

"Mind?" Sherlock retorted, a little caught off guard by what he meant.

"Yes! You don't mind that I'm here?"

The detective gave pause, taking a moment to actually consider the question. Finally, after leaving John hanging high and dry, he responded, "No, I don't."

John smiled and snuggled further into the pillow he was on. "Good."

"Let me rephrase," Sherlock said quickly, stepping closer to the bed. "I don't mind having you in my bed, no. But I do mind _right now._ There are pressing matters at hand, John. The case!"

"The case?" John parroted, sitting up again.

"Yes the case!"

"Sod the case!"

"Sod the case?" Sherlock queried, eyebrows shooting up.

The doctor sighed, burying his face in his hands. "Yes, Sherlock. I am not in any state whatsoever to be assisting on a case, in case you haven't noticed, _detective._" The word slipped from his mouth in a slurred whisper that elicited a smirk. John could be so amusing. "Do you really need me or do you just want to be there when they catch the criminal and turn your coat collar up all smug like and I'll make comments about it?"

"Smug like?" Sherlock boasted, his eyebrows practically into his hairline.

"Just answer the question."

Sherlock shook his head, but was pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. "I thought you might like to assist me on a case where your medical skills would be put to good use."

"How's that?" John asked.

"I have it on good authority that the man who committed the murder suffers from a rare form of skin disease. I assumed you'd be able to help me discern him from the other residents."

Sherlock scrolled through his contacts and hit send to Lestrade.

'_Can't make it. It's the man who keeps scratching himself. –SH'_

"You couldn't have done that yourself?"

Sherlock smirked and placed his phone on the desk, unbuttoning his coat. "Perhaps." John laughed and laid on the bed again. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf, stretching his arms. "Shouldn't you go sleep in your own room, John?"

"Yours was closer," the doctor replied.

Sherlock laughed, remembering the last time John used that excuse. It appeared to be his go-to phrase when he had been drinking. He looked at the doctor who was laid across his bed. If decency won over, he would leave the doctor there and go finish his experiments in the kitchen, or even escort the doctor to his own room. However, decency didn't look like it would be winning.

"The last time you fell asleep with me you complained about how uncomfortable it had been for a week," Sherlock pointed out, crossing the room.

"I lied."

The sleuth smiled and removed his shoes. John moved over enough to let Sherlock slide in beside him. He was still fully clothed, but that didn't bother him in the least. They laid next to each other in silence for a while, and Sherlock felt like the space between them was miles instead of mere inches.

"What happened tonight?"

John smirked and glanced up at his friend. "Can't you deduce that for yourself?"

"I'd rather hear you say it," Sherlock confessed. "You retell stories with a certain… flair. One that I am often missing, so I have been told."

Smiling again, John let out a long sigh and stretched, making himself more comfortable. He saddled closer to Sherlock for the warmth as he started his story. "Mike asked if I wanted to get a pint with him and Molly after my shift. We went to a pub near the hospital; lots of students were there. I was chatting with a girl at the bar – who, by the way, started talking to ME first. She's a student at St. Bart's; nice girl. We were discussing her career options, school, the army. We were have a very _congenial_ conversation, when suddenly her boyfriend walks up! This really big, built, mean-looking bloke. He shouted about me being an old man and finding someone my own age to hit on, then threw HER drink at me. Really! The nerve of some people."

"What did the girl do?" Sherlock asked in genuine curiosity.

"She apologized profusely, but still left with the guy," he sighed. "I wasn't interested, but I hope that saw the jerk for what he was and dumped him."

"Why?"

John looked up at the detective, asking, "'Why?' what?"

"Why weren't you interested?" Sherlock reiterated. He tried to act as nonchalant as possible in the question, but his pulse was a little elevated.

"Oh." John stayed silent for a long time. The moments seemed to drag on as Sherlock and he looked at each other. His drunk-hazed mind tried to shuffle around what to say, but eventually he just blurted, "I had something better."

Sherlock felt the blood rush to his face, and knew he had probably grown red to his ears. Cursing his inability to stop the blush, he just looked away and hoped John hadn't noticed. John suddenly closed the gap between the two of them entirely. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sudden heat pressed into his side, the doctor's head pressed firmly on his shoulder.

John was drunk, he told himself. He didn't know what he was doing or why he was doing it. Yet, John seemed sound enough to hold an entire conversation. He knew who he was talking to, and he knew who he was cuddling with so affectionately.

Feeling awkward with his long and gangly limbs, unsure how to make sure John was comfortable, Sherlock found himself turning onto his side to face the smaller man. His arm slipped across John's unclothed torso, holding him close. They both relished in the warmth from the other in a happy silence.

"The light's still on," John mumbled sleepily.

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "I'll turn it off later."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

The detective smiled, feeling John's arms tighter around him. "Goodnight John."

**AN: **I hope you guys liked it! Please let me know if you did through reviews and boosting the story on **tumblr**. Check my profile for my page and follow me if you'd like! :)

Go, be merry, and review!


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